


A Simple Secret

by mydogwatson



Series: Quartet:  A Composition For 4 Voices [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Modern Day, Retirement, Romance, Victorian Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6099643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valentine's Day is never easy for John and Sherlock.  Or Holmes and Watson.  The more things change, the more they stay the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Simple Secret

**Author's Note:**

> So, only a little late, here is my 2016 Valentine story. Considering that my 2015 Valentine story didn't post until 20 May, I'm doing better! This four-part series is part literary experiment, part self-indulgence, and a big chunk of hoping you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. As usual, it is all written and I will be posting one part each day. Let me know what you think….

And now here is my secret, a very  
simple secret: It is only with the  
heart that one can see rightly…

-Antoine de Saint-Exupery

1

 

The most romantic restaurant in London.

At least that was what it was called in the press and the advertisements. And on this occasion, supposedly the most romantic night of the year, the place was filled with happy couples [or couples miming happiness, which seemed much more likely] dining on wild Scottish halibut and dark Valrhona chocolate. From where he was secreted in the shadows of Covent Garden, Sherlock could take in the whole of the apple-blossom adorned conservatory. The low hum of many conversations reached him and the sound was almost musical as it floated through the starry night.

Sherlock shifted slightly, stretching his cramped legs.

He had a good view of his target, Sir Jeremy Day, who was sharing a bottle of NV Barons de Rothschild [Lafite] Champagne Brut Rose with his fiancé, a blonde and tanned French actress whose name Sherlock had already forgotten. They seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Sherlock found himself wondering if John were also having a pleasant dinner [at a much less expensive café, of course] with the boring nurse. Jennie. Maggie. Whatever. He had obviously anticipated having a more pleasant evening spent in her tedious company than he would have done accepting Sherlock’s invitation to join him on the stake-out. Not even dangling the promise of Russian spies and a possible chase through darkened alleys had tempted him to cancel the date.

Never mind.

Sherlock was quite used to working alone. Although admittedly not as accustomed to it as he had been before John Watson arrived on the scene. Now he preferred to have the other man by his side, whether they were charging into a brawl or merely watching a glib traitor sip champagne during a Valentine dinner. Simply put, John should always be with him.

Well, he thought so anyway. Obviously, for whatever reason, John would rather be sharing a bottle of sub-standard Chardonnay with any random woman off the street than be here. With him.

Which was fine, of course.

Day and the woman were still murmuring to one another. Boring. Sherlock let his gaze drift just slightly, over to the next table. Another happy couple, apparently. A tall, silver-haired man wearing a suit that looked like an Ermenegildo Zegna and his companion, a slightly younger man with blond hair and a frequent grin. As Sherlock watched the younger man touched his finger to the pudding in front of him and then put the chocolate-coated digit to the lips of his companion, who slowly licked the sauce away. Then they both glanced around, as if embarrassed by what had happened, and seemed to giggle. The man in the Zegna did not look like the sort to giggle. John was a giggler. Which was irrelevant, of course.

It was the most romantic restaurant in London.

This was most romantic night of the year.

Which apparently called for chocolate and champagne and soft giggles.

Sherlock turned his gaze back to the other table, annoyed at himself for being distracted from the subject at hand. The woman stood and made her way towards the lavatory. The spy stayed where he was. Mycroft seemed sure that the transfer of the data stick would happen here tonight and annoying as he was, his brother was usually right about such things. So Sherlock would stay here and watch and wait.

Not that he had anything better to do anyway.

Sherlock wished that he had a cigarette.

He wished…

Never mind.

***

 

2

 

Watson listened to the fragile breaths of the old woman for a moment. He touched the back of his hand to her forehead. It helped him, as always, to occupy himself with such doctorly gestures, even though he was quite aware that there was nothing more to be done for his patient. She would die this night and he would bear solemn witness. It was what he did.

His friend the detective, Holmes, sometimes looked askance at him when he mentioned it. But at least he no longer questioned the worth of Watson actually being with a patient as he or she breathed their last. Once Holmes had gone so far as to murmur that he was simply concerned about the toll such long nights took on his companion and Watson took that comment as it had been meant.

He leaned back in the armchair. Its upholstery matched the green striped wallpaper nicely. The bedroom was a peaceful, if slightly cloying, haven. The paintings on the wall were not of the best quality, but they showed the bourgeois ambitions of the homeowners. The gaudiest object in the room was a lace and ribbon concoction propped on the mantel, a card importuning the recipient to Be My Valentine.

Watson realised that he had entirely forgotten the occasion.

Mr Hattie was a merchant, a purveyor of fine silks from distant Oriental places, and that business had provided a good life for himself and his wife. They had not been blessed with children, Watson knew, so once the woman was gone, Hattie would be on his own.

The man himself came into the bedroom just then. “Doctor, our neighbour Miss Long, has brought over some light supper. I insist you join me to partake. Emily will be fine for a few minutes, will she not?”

Watson did not tell him that it mattered not at all, really, if he was by her side. Instead, he decided that some tea and a little food would not go amiss. “Thank you,” he said, standing. “It is very kind of you to share with me.”

Hattie gazed at his wife for a moment and then led the way from the bedroom to a pleasant enough parlour.

Watson wondered just when the sight of a perfectly arrayed parlour, with heavy furniture, decorative carpets, and maudlin paintings of children and kittens had become less appealing to him than the constant clutter of 221B. Then he chuckled silently, thinking that his changing taste in interior furnishings was undoubtedly the least significant indicator of the mad life he now led.

Miss Long, the helpful neighbour, had outdone herself, leaving them a tray filled with gammon sandwiches, cheese, pickles and two huge slices of sponge cake with thick cream and jam. And, thankfully, a pot of tea. Watson made a mental note to tell Holmes about his deduction that it seemed as if the spinster from next door was prepared to offer solace and food to the soon-to-be grieving man. Holmes, he knew, would be pleased by the deduction and even more pleased by the edge of cynicism it displayed. Watson wondered if perhaps he ought to be a bit bothered by that, but accepted that he was not.

Hattie ate thoughtfully for a moment. “We have been married for nearly forty years, Emily and I” he said finally. “It will be very odd being on my own.”

It was a good thing Holmes was not there, Watson thought, because he would no doubt point out that Miss Long was lurking. All Watson said was, “Yes, I understand.” He finished a second sandwich and turned his attention to the cake.

Hattie nodded. “Oh, I am sure you do, Doctor Watson. Emily and I have so often enjoyed your tales in the Strand. You and your friend Mr Holmes have had some adventures.”

“Indeed we have.”

Hattie picked up his cup and took a swallow of the tea. “We read about the death of your wife, as well, in your account. So I know you understand how I am feeling.”

Now Watson felt a familiar shaft of guilt, the one he felt every time someone offered sympathies on his loss. At least it happened less frequently these days.

Holmes always told him not to feel so badly about the deception. Whenever John brought the subject up, he would frown at him and shake his head. “The guilt is not yours or mine,” he would point out. “It is the society that demands we hide our true natures. The law is an ass and so it forced you to create a wife and a marriage so that we might live in peace. I do not regret the subterfuge and neither should you.”

And really Watson did not regret what he had done, inventing a courtship, a marriage, the sad loss of a fictional wife. He would do it again and much more as well to continue his life with the one person on earth he truly loved.

They finished the meal in silence and then both men went back to the bedroom to watch Emily Hattie slip from the world. As they sat there, Watson looked over again at the rather horrid and in the circumstances heart-breaking Valentine. When he finally made it back to 221B, he would crawl into bed and wish Holmes a happy Valentine’s Day.

He could imagine the expression that would cross his lover’s face.

With that image, he set aside all such thoughts and turned his attention to the dying woman. He owed her that much.

***

 

3

 

It was really a very nice café

Despite the over-the-top decorations, which consisted of far too many shiny red paper hearts and several leering Cupids, each armed with the obligatory bow and quiver of arrows. He could only imagine Sherlock’s reaction to the place.

Not that his opinion mattered in the least.

John had specifically requested a quiet table and tipped the maître ‘d accordingly, so they were quite cosy. 

Nancy was a newish nurse at the surgery and she had responded warmly to his automatic [he refused to use the word perfunctory, although sometimes it felt like that] flirting. Having a first date on Valentine’s Day was always a risk, of course, but John had decided to take a chance. Maybe living with Sherlock made him less risk averse. 

At any rate, things seemed to be going along nicely thus far. The conversation had been a bit stilted to start with, but that was to be expected on any first date. John kept expecting his phone to vibrate with a text from Sherlock summoning him as usual, but so far all was quiet on the Russian spy front.

Too quiet, he thought, although that sounded like a line from some bad film.  
He just had to decide whether to be grateful for the reprieve or worried that Sherlock was in some kind of trouble. The kind of trouble that required back up by a man with a gun.

Impatiently, John ordered himself to forget all about the annoying git he lived with and concentrate on the lovely woman who was sitting across from him. She was in the middle of telling him an amusing story about…well, about something and so when she laughed, he did as well.

Maybe he just needed to loosen up a little. He poured some more of the perfectly adequate mid-range wine for each of them.

Nancy fluttered her lashes at him. “John Watson, are you trying to get me drunk?” she said with a smile.

No, I’m trying to get me drunk, he did not say. “I’m a gentleman,” was what he said aloud.

“Not too much of a gentleman, I hope.” From the expression on her face John could tell that she was teasing him.

He could also tell that there was a pretty good chance he could get a leg over tonight if he wanted to. And why wouldn’t he want to?

John tried very hard not to think about a recurring nightmare he’d been having recently. While he was not thinking about that, Nancy had finished her pasta and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

As soon as she was out of sight, John pulled out his phone just to be sure that between the conversation and the piano music, he hadn’t missed a text. But there was nothing.

It was possible, of course, that Sherlock Holmes, for the first time in history, had simply decided to pay attention when John ordered the other man to simply leave him the hell alone for one bloody night.

It was possible.

But there was that damned nightmare. Which was not about the war for a change.

In the dream, he was in bed with a nameless lovely woman, all lush flesh and sweet smells, and he was enjoying himself. After it was over and they were lying together in a post-coital haze, his phone rang. Reluctantly he reached over and picked it up, cursing Sherlock as he did.

But it wasn’t Sherlock ringing to annoy him as usual. No, it was Lestrade on the other end of the call. Lestrade telling him that something terrible had happened and Sherlock was bleeding out on the pavement. Sherlock was dying and he was asking for John, but Lestrade said there wasn’t time to get there, no matter how much John hurried. In the way of dreams, he was suddenly dressed and running through the dark streets, but he couldn’t find the address and when he finally found the correct alley, all the police were gone and only a shock blanket-covered form was waiting for him.

John knew very well what was under the orange blanket, but he could not bring himself to lift the cloth and see a dead Sherlock Holmes, broken and bleeding, lying on the pavement.

Why didn’t the bastard just text him?

Suddenly he realised that Nancy was sitting across from him again. Her expression was rueful. “I was warned that this might happen,” she said, nodding towards the phone. “I suppose Holmes needs you, so our Valentine date is over.”

John opened his mouth, expecting to say ‘no, no, it’s good’, but what came out was “Sorry. A crisis has arisen. Let me get the bill and then I’ll find you a cab.”

Unsurprisingly, Nancy was far from happy with him, but that could not be helped. Once she was on her way, John waved down another cab and gave the driver the address of the fancy restaurant outside of which Sherlock had said he’d be lurking.,

As the cab set off, John gave a sigh of relief and pulled out his phone again. _Need your blogger?_

The response arrived in less than thirty seconds.

_Always._  
SH

John looked out the cab window into the London night and smiled

***

 

 

4

 

Holmes knew very well that he would have to make apologies to Mrs Hudson later for snapping at her when she tried to press some dinner upon him. Not that it was entirely his fault, of course. She should certainly know by this time that on those occasions when Watson felt obliged to spend the night sitting at the bedside of a dying patient Holmes was going to be most out of sorts.

He finally accepted some tea just so that she would feel her efforts had not gone to waste and so that, hopefully, she would leave him alone.

Holmes stood at the window and drank the tea slowly, looking down at Baker Street as he did so. The mass of boring pedestrians all pretended to be on some urgent errand when he knew full well that most of them were just homeward bound, where they would have a quite ordinary supper and an evening of dull conversation. He did not know how they bore it day after day, year after year.

No one paused outside the door of 221 deliberating as to whether or not they had the courage to actually engage the world’s only consulting detective. Frankly, on this night, he was just as glad that no one wanted to engage him on what would undoubtedly turn out to be an exercise in monotony.

He wanted Watson to be here. Holmes cursed the man’s decency and compassion, although he recognised the hypocrisy of despising the very qualities of his lover that he himself had benefitted from so very often. He finished the tea and left the cup on the window ledge as he crossed the room towards the divan.

On the way he snatched up the Moroccan leather case. He had known for at least an hour how this evening would end and was prepared to withstand Watson’s expression of disappointment if he returned earlier than anticipated. Hopefully the old woman would drag out the process of dying until dawn.

Before preparing the usual 7% solution, he picked up the ridiculous scientific romance Watson had been consumed by for several evenings now. He would occasionally glance up from his reading to share with Holmes some far-fetched prediction of an imagined distant future. It was all rather absurd, of course, although Holmes found himself hoping that perhaps over time humanity would become less ignorant. He was not overly optimistic about the odds of that actually happening, however.

Finally, he tossed the book aside and got on with it.

As the familiar sensation of the cocaine rushed through him, Holmes felt his mind slip into a new realm. Even as he was lost in this strange world, he recognised from whence it all sprang. The blame lay squarely with Watson’s foolish scientific romance, of course.

What he saw was a future of bright lights and noise in a London that was no less chaotic than the one he knew. It was a city filled with remarkable vehicles that moved too quickly and illuminations in colours that would amaze his contemporaries. As Holmes moved through the fantastical landscape there was only one constant.

That one consistency was the presence of Watson at his side. However, instead of entwining their arms as they so often did when walking around the city, they were actually holding hands. No one seemed bothered by such an overt display of affection. In his dream state, Holmes was bemused. The two men wore odd clothing, Watson had no moustache, and his own hair did not bear thinking of, such a tousled mess was it, but it was clearly Watson and himself.

As the two familiar strangers walked on, bemusement became astonishment when John [and that was how he thought of him in this strange new world] pulled him close and kissed him lightly despite the fact that they were on a public street. This other Holmes clutched John’s hand even more tightly and only then did it become obvious that each of them wore a silver ring.

_“Come, husband,” John said. “We are late for our dinner reservation and Angelo will be grumpy.”_

Holmes watched the two men walk off, still clasping one another and he felt a strange sense of melancholy.

He tried to hold on to the images, to the feelings, to the future in which he could love his Watson so openly, but despite his efforts, it all slipped away and Holmes let the blackness take him.

If he dreamt more, it vanished into the fog.

+++

**Author's Note:**

> Tomorrow: The Gleamings of an Empty Heart


End file.
